


rewind, replay

by rarestsenpai



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Self-Esteem Issues, there's a flashback at the beginning so please avoid this fic if it's a trigger!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 10:50:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6902809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarestsenpai/pseuds/rarestsenpai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most days, Bokuto doesn’t see himself at all. Instead, he lies in bed with Kuroo and Akaashi as they watch the hour hand of the clock move from twelve to one. To two. To three. </p><p>Bokuto feels like a broken tape recorder. Kuroo and Akaashi try to pick up the scattered pieces.</p><p>Written for BokuAkaKuro Week 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rewind, replay

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: secrets/revelations

Koutarou is only nine.

Koutarou is only nine when the grip on his arm is bruising. Nails dig into his skin until they draw blood but he doesn’t feel anything because the burn of his lungs as he gasps for air between desperate whimpers for help hurts even more.

 _No, no, no_ , his mind screams, _not the room please!_ He struggles to stay rooted to the ground as much as possible. The friction from his knees being dragged against the floor is almost unbearable. Still, it is nothing compared to growing fear that pounds in his chest when he hears the door click shut behind him.

“M-mommy please! Let me go!”

“You’re a failure, Koutarou,” she spat, “I hate you! You ruined my life!”

It really hurts— the hand that she has tangled in his scalp makes him wish he could make his hair fall out at will. Kicking his feet out, she lets out a groan of pain when his foot finally connects with her shin. Her loosened grip is enough for Koutarou to wrench himself away quickly.

Koutarou scrambles to his feet. _The door, the door, the door._

The cool touch of the metal doorknob sends a sense of relief running from his fingertips down to his toes. He wouldn’t have to be hurt! He could finally escape!

Yet, as soon he flung open the door, his world disorientates itself and he feels himself being roughly yanked further and further from safety.

Koutarou barely registers what happens next, only remembers the despair as he’s pinned to the bed and the terrified cries that tear themselves from his throat.

“Help! Help! **SOMEONE SAVE ME!** ”

He can hardly breathe, only listening to the wails of his mother that ring in his ears. _Why won’t you die already, Koutarou?_

He’s not strong enough. She weighs four times more than he does with arms like lead chains and stronger than he ever will be and Koutarou’s heart _sinks_.

_I’m going to die._

Her face is red, contorted with rage as she snarls, hands unbearably tight around his neck as the room starts to spin. Koutarou squeezes his eyes shut.

He screams.

* * *

 

There are a couple of stories that Bokuto goes back to once in a while. When he begins them, he’s surprisingly calm—the only telltale sign of his distress are the cold, trembling hands that Kuroo and Akaashi hold onto as they run their fingers gently through his hair.

They know all of them by heart. Know how to intertwine their fingers tightly with Bokuto’s when he reaches the parts where his voice breaks. Know when his breaths turn shallow as his agitation escalates and his tongue flaps uselessly against the vowels he tries to create before they dissolve into choked sobs.

The first time he tells them, Kuroo and Akaashi could only stay silent. What could you possibly say to something like that? They cup his cheeks as he takes huge stuttered gulps of air, kissing away the tear tracks that appear each time he blinks and hope things will be alright.

They wipe away as many as they can because Bokuto sometimes lets out anguished screams in the shower until they swear that most of the water streaming down his face isn’t from the shower head alone.

(It’s not fair, Bokuto whispers, Why didn’t anyone help me when I needed it?)

It’s their secret now. They share it with Bokuto and they carefully thread it reassurances and affection. _There’s nothing wrong with you, Bokuto. You’re safe now. You’re loved. You’re perfect._

_You’re perfect, you’re perfect, you’re perfect._

They repeat themselves like the broken recorders that Bokuto compares himself to, wondering if he’ll truly believe it someday.

They cannot imagine a life without him. Bokuto Koutarou is the warm, insistent cuddles on a winter morning when he whines that it’s too cold to get out of bed.

He is the bubbling giggles that slip past their lips when they try to go for a picnic but the weather forecast was wrong and now they’re running around in the rain like they’re six again.

He is surprise-breakfast in the morning made with leftover pancake mix but they laugh because it ends up looking more like scrambled eggs but it's still _delicious_.

When the ragged breathing gradually settles down into a slower rhythm, Bokuto’s swollen eyes crinkle at the corners. He cracks jokes as small as his voice but it still makes their lips twitch up at the corners.

These nights, they fall asleep together on the couch with the bright glow of the television casted over their woven fingers and soft exhales.

* * *

 

The year Bokuto turned thirteen, his insecurities are mapped out through a series of raised bumps, healing scabs and scars on his face.

He’s never really bothered with them, he would say years later. He’s never looked long enough at a mirror to care.

Some days, Bokuto takes his time studying what he sees in his reflection, noting the little bump that sits on the bridge of his nose or the way his squared jaw is softened by the fats around his cheeks.

Most days, Bokuto doesn’t see himself at all. Instead, he lies in bed with Kuroo and Akaashi as they watch the hour hand of the clock move from twelve to one. To two. To three. Each time, he admits the things he doesn’t like about his appearance.

He blurts them out in the same order each time.

_Kuroo leans back on the kitchen counter as he takes a sip from his mug, “It’s almost like Bokuto has this list that’s been long ingrained in his mind.”_

_Akaashi chooses not to say anything._

_A week later, Bokuto confesses that his mother was the one who pointed them out._

So they memorise the list well enough to place light kisses on Bokuto’s “wonky eyebrows”, trail feather-like touches across his “Dumbo ears” and hold his “pudgy hands” between theirs.

Bokuto’s smiles can be infectious grins that stretch from ear to ear. They can be small, contended hum on the surface of lips. This time, it’s a strained laugh that quirks the corners of his mouth.

It’s enough for now.

* * *

 

Bokuto makes more lists than they can ever imagine. There are new ones and there are ones he’s made before he’s even met them. Lists about things people find weird about him. Lists about the things he thinks he’s good at and things he’s bad at.

He counts the things he can do well on his right hand out loud.

Play volleyball, cook scrambled eggs, finish a large bowl of noodles in four minutes, hold his breath under water for two and knows more about owls than he’ll probably ever need to know.

He’s long stopped counting the things he’s bad at.

Kuroo and Akaashi spend afternoons wondering how much he hides under that sunny disposition.

The memories are sweeter when Bokuto is five. He is Koutarou and his mother twirls him around the living room. She calls him _darling, sweetheart, my little owl._

Koutarou shrieks with joy as she sweeps him up into her arms and peppers tiny kisses on his rosy cheeks.

“ _Mommy, stop!_ ” he’d howl before erupting into another fit of giggles.

Bokuto tells these stories like they’re listed in a book of fairytales. As though the more he recites them, the more the reality of her jeering taunts that fill his head and dreams would eventually go away.

Kuroo and Akaashi aren’t his knights-in-shining armour. They don’t lie to themselves and pretend they’re something they’re not. But every time Bokuto finds the courage to take a step into his therapist’s office while gripping their hands like they’re lifelines; they believe things will be okay.

Maybe not now, but Bokuto is still the strongest person they know.

And that’s all that matters.

**Author's Note:**

> you can always find me on [tumblr](http://sneakycharliesneaky.tumblr.com/)


End file.
